


Snowfall

by swampdiamonds



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 09:21:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3114659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swampdiamonds/pseuds/swampdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finduilas and Gwindor wait for Agarwaen to return from the North-marches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowfall

**Author's Note:**

> An earlier version of this story was posted on my Tumblr in December 2013. The original, if you're really dying to read it, can be found [here](http://swampdiamonds.tumblr.com/post/69548786163/here-is-a-fluffy-snowy-self-indulgent-little).

 Snow was falling over the Narog. The naked trees on the hillsides glimmered, and the grim, dead landscape below gradually disappeared beneath a blanket of solid white. Finduilas and her companions stood in the shadow of the great gates, shaking snow from their boots and cloaks and saying leisurely farewells. “Oh, look, dear,” said Lady Arassael, putting a hand on her elbow, “here’s Lord Gwindor come to meet you!”

Here was Gwindor indeed, off in a corner with the guards and looking disconcerted at the gathering. He seemed surprised to see her. “I came to ask if there had been any news,” he explained. “Agarwaen is up for leave and would be on his way down from the North-marches today, but with this snow…”

“I’m sure he’s fine, my lord,” said the guard, with the patient air of one who had answered this question before, “the snow isn’t deep, and it’s slowing down already.”

“He’s quite right,” said Finduilas. “I was just outside; it isn’t bad at all. Just enough to make everything look lovely.”

Gwindor looked sheepish. “I only wanted to check,” he said.

Finduilas felt a drop of snowmelt work its way down the back of her neck. “Listen, darling,” she said, bringing her hand around where he could see it and laying it on his arm, “I have an urgent appointment with a hot fire and some dry stockings. Give me a moment to say goodbye, and then why don’t you come keep me company while you wait?”

* * *

Being a two-handed endeavor, the chestnut-shelling fell to Finduilas. Gwindor pulled the little three-legged skillet from the flames and set it down in front of her, then returned to the couch. She opened the blankets for him and he settled at her side. “I believe they’re done,” he said, as she lifted the lid to examine the chestnuts. “Be careful, they’re very hot.”

“I have done this before, you know,” Finduilas murmured, poking the sizzling nuts with her knife.

She left them to cool and tightened the blanket around herself and Gwindor. “He should be here by now,” he said, for the third time. “Something must have happened.”

“I’m sure that’s not it,” said Finduilas. “Maybe he was late starting out, or decided to wait and come tomorrow. Or maybe he’ll turn up yet tonight; it’s not too late.”

“Maybe, maybe,” muttered Gwindor. “Or maybe there was a skirmish. What if they were ambushed--.”

Finduilas shelled a few chestnuts and handed them to him. “He _will come_ , Gwindor,” she said. “Now eat these before they get cold.”

Gwindor looked unconvinced, but accepted the chestnuts.

An hour passed, then two. The maid brought in a jug of spiced wine. Finduilas got out her sewing basket and began to work. Gwindor paced, sat down, fidgeted, poured a cup of wine, drank it, rummaged through Finduilas’ sewing tools (“be careful, dear, there are needles”), dozed off, woke up, rose, paced, poked the fire, and sat back down next to Finduilas, ready to do it all again. She bit her lip and sighed heavily, but said nothing. They were rescued at last by a voice calling from the doorway.

“Your Highness,” said the maid, “Agarwaen is here looking for Lord Gwindor.”

“Oh!” said Finduilas, “Show him in, then!”

Agarwaen appeared in the doorway, still wrapped in a heavy mantle. His cheeks were red and in the firelight his hair glistened with snowmelt. He looked grim and tired, but his face lit up when he saw them.

Gwindor threw off the blankets and rose to intercept him, grasping his arm and looking him up and down as though to assure himself that his friend had arrived undamaged. He began to speak, paused, shook his head, and said, “Come sit down and get warm. Have a drink. I would offer you some chestnuts, but I am sorry to say we’ve eaten them all.”

Agarwaen hesitated, looking at the couch and at his own travel-worn clothing. “It’s perfectly all right, Agarwaen,” said Finduilas. “Please do join us.”

He obliged, hanging his hood and mantle by the fire to dry, and settling awkwardly an arm’s length away from Finduilas. Gwindor, suddenly the confident host, poured out a cup of wine for Agarwaen, topped off his own and Finduilas’, and settled down between them. “What took you so long?” he demanded.

“The weather, I suppose,” said Agarwaen. “We were in no great hurry, and my companions were in high spirits and wanted to dance in the snow.”

“But not you,” said Gwindor,  smiling.

Agarwaen shook his head, then, noticing for the first time that something was different, squinted at Gwindor’s face. Gwindor bared his teeth. The firelight glinted off polished bone and silver. “What do you think?” he asked.

Agarwaen raised his eyebrows, impressed. “They are very well-crafted,” he said.

“I agree,” said Gwindor, “I quite like them. So--who did you come down with? Anyone I would know?”

Agarwaen began listing names and descriptions; Gwindor shook his head to each. Finduilas picked up her sewing again. Then: “...and Celongil you surely remember.”

“Who?” said Gwindor.

“Celongil. He was there at the border when we first came here.”

Gwindor sank back onto the cushions between them, lost in thought. “Oh. Yes...yes, of course.”

He set his wine down and ran his hand over his face. “If I remember right,” he said, “it would be just about a year since then.”

“So it would be,” said Finduilas, setting aside her sewing and growing pensive herself. Agarwaen said nothing.

Gwindor picked up his cup again and raised it. “Let us drink to, to…”

Finduilas and Agarwaen raised their cups obligingly, but Gwindor only wrinkled his brow and looked bemused. “Oh, never mind,” he said at last, “you know what I mean.”

The three settled down to sip their wine in silence, listening to the fire crackle. Gwindor moved closer to Finduilas, then reached over and tugged Agarwaen closer on the other side. Finduilas pulled the blanket up to cover all of them.


End file.
